


Pheasant Hunt

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Guns, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: July 6, 1981. It would be their 24th anniversary.





	Pheasant Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> I whipped this up for today for obvious reasons. It's short but sad. 
> 
> I do describe John's murder in some detail. Not too graphic, but be warned. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

July 6, 1981. It would be their 24th anniversary. 

Paul stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair’s plastered to his forehead with sweat. A small nightlight throws sharp shadows across his face. His head aches and his mouth tastes sour. 

He starts the shower and steps under the spray. It pounds down on his back, hot enough to turn his skin red. He closes his eyes and imagines John there beside him. All he wants is to feel John’s body against his own. He longs to taste the peculiar mix of fruity gum and Gitanes on John’s tongue. Paul would sell his fucking soul for one more night with John. Just one more night to hold him and tell him ‘I love you.’ 

Paul had never been able to say it out loud. Even in India, when John taunted him and waved Yoko’s postcards in his face, Paul didn't say it. He just laughed at the silly messages. A woman can’t be a cloud. What kind of love is that? John screamed in his face and punched him until blood stained his lips like ruby red lipstick. What kind of love is that?

Paul almost told him the last time they saw each other — the last time they fucked — in ’76, but the words died in his throat. It was too late. It was over. There was no more Lennon-McCartney, there was only John and Paul: two different people with two different lives. 

Then John died.

 

December 8, 1980. To someone in the park it probably sounded like a distant firecracker. _Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang._ Five shots, four bullets in the back. The first bullet sailed over John’s head and shattered a window. The first bullet always misses — Oswald’s first bullet missed Kennedy. 

The surgeon at Roosevelt Hospital announced John dead on arrival. 11:15 p.m. Witnesses say All My Loving was playing over the hospital loud speakers. 

Paul walked around in a daze for weeks after. Everything moved in slow motion like the air was made of molasses. 

It didn’t sink in until later. He was sitting in the studio when it finally hit him: John Lennon was dead. Paul abruptly stopped singing in the middle of a song, his hands hitting the piano with a discordant crash. He stumbled to the bathroom and vomited. John Lennon was dead. 

He went home and locked himself in his music room, sliding down to sit against the wall. He brought his arms up over his head as if to protect himself. The sounds he made were guttural — like a wounded animal. John Lennon was dead. 

Paul thought it would get better, but it only got worse. Just the word “gun” made him nauseous. Any loud noises made him jump, anxiety burning icy hot in his gut. 

One morning, there was a pheasant hunt behind the house. He was standing in the kitchen having his morning tea when he heard the first shot: _Bang._ The teacup slipped out of his hand and shattered against the floor. _Bang._ Hot tea splashed the hem of his pajama pants and burned his bare feet. _Bang._ He grabbed onto the countertop to keep himself from falling. _Bang, bang, bang, bang._ His entire body seized up. _Bang._ He couldn’t stop shaking. _Bang._

“Paul!” 

Linda’s face swam in front of him, in and out of focus. _Bang._ “It’s a pheasant hunt. I’m going to ask them to move somewhere else. Just stay here. It’s okay.” She pushed him into one of the kitchen chairs. _Bang._

He rested his forehead against the cool wood table. The shooting finally stopped. Linda came back inside and cleaned up the mess. Paul stared straight ahead. 

A pheasant hunt and a murder sound exactly the same.

 

Paul gets out of the shower and halfheartedly dries himself off. It would be their 24th anniversary, but John Lennon is dead. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry that this was sad and angsty. I hate me. 
> 
> The thing with the pheasant hunt really did happen. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
